


Coldfire, Hot Bath

by elaine



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaine/pseuds/elaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien decides to have a bath. And maybe solve a problem at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coldfire, Hot Bath

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a tag to the ending of Crown of Shadows

It came as no real surprise that, even in the mid-afternoon, the bathhouse was as crowded as the common room had been. Perhaps the olive-skinned stranger would decide to take his bath later, but Damien doubted it. Tarrant… the stranger - he hastily amended his theorising - would not want to suffer under the taint of a common child's grubbiness any longer than was absolutely necessary.

He didn't even consider the possibility that the stranger would be staying at any other inn, and therefore patronising another bathhouse. This inn boasted the best (i.e. most nearly completed) accommodations and the stranger would not patronise any but the best. That was a given, as fixed a law of nature as any on this planet. Damien decided to chance his luck and joined the small queue of customers.

His reward came when, as he was being led into the massage room by an attendant, he saw the stranger rising from a low table, naked and gleaming dully with oil, to move to the next station in this ritual of cleansing. Damien suppressed the urge to place a curse on the head of whoever had decided that a bath at the Black Ridge Tavern was to be an Event rather than a necessary function of cleanliness. With a sigh, Damien submitted to the hands of his attendant and advised him that only the minimum would be required.

Even so, as he entered the next room (warm baths), his only glimpse of the stranger was the flick of a dark braid and a shapely olive rump disappearing through the curtained opening. It developed, to Damien's increasing frustration, into a game of hide and go seek. Damien chased the flickering black braid through the warm baths, the soaping and rinsing area and the cool baths. Then another warm bath. At last he slid into a steaming hot tub, relaxed back against the side, and eyed the only other occupant with a wariness he hadn't felt since he was last in the presence of Gerald Tarrant.

He was ignored. The stranger's head was thrown back against the edge of the tub, his throat a taut, graceful arc, and the dark lashes lay undisturbed on his high cheekbones. The densely black hair was unbound now, lying in a tangled fall across one slim shoulder. The olive skin was flushed with the heat of the water and, as he watched, a trickle of sweat slid down the perfectly smooth cheek. Damien watched its trail, both fascinated and disturbed by this sign of imperfection, and had to resist the urge to brush it away. 

The two men sat in silence in the steaming water until Damien's frustration level reached simmering point. For all the indication the young man gave, Damien might never have existed. It was quiet in here; even the subdued sounds of the other areas of the bath house were missing as the occupants relaxed in their tubs, no doubt steeling themselves for the icy douche which would complete their ablutions.

Just as Damien decided to try his luck, the young man sighed quietly and slid beneath the surface, then erupted out of it in a miniature tsunami of hot droplets. Damien, dashing away the water from his eyes and blinking rapidly, was aware only of a slim body emerging like some pagan god of legend from the water and retreating in a waft of steam. He cursed furiously and scrambled to follow.

Too intent on his quarry, Damien was taken by surprise when what seemed like a wall of frigid water slammed into his chest. He stopped, gasping, and was caught by a second deluge, against his back this time. He stumbled into one of the attendants and nearly fell. Then he was out. A warm towelling robe was dropped across his shoulders like a blessing from on high, and Damien awkwardly thrust his arms into the sleeves, pulled the cloth around him for decency's sake and hurried to the changing area.

There was no sign of his quarry. Damien growled a curse under his breath. It looked like he'd have to ask after the young man at the Tavern's common room, and that, if his suspicions were even remotely accurate, was something he'd rather not do. Then he caught sight of a bundle of black leather and crimson silk being borne off by one of the attendants.

He grabbed the boy by his arm. "Those clothes…"

"Taking 'em to be laundered, sir." The boy sniffed. "You want I should take your'n as well?"

"Ah… yes. Yes I do." He grabbed his own clothing and thrust it into the boy's arms. "The young man who wore these clothes… what room is he in? I, uh… I owe him a debt. Cards."

The excuse sounded pathetically weak, but the boy was either uncaring, or naive enough to accept it at face value. "He's in room eight, Mer. I'll bring your gear when it's done, shall I?"

Damien was already halfway out the door. "Thanks. Room fifteen."

*

Room eight.

Damien stood outside the door for several minutes. Long enough for several passers-by to stare at him questioningly. He ought to go to his own room. Gerald Tarrant was dead and this youth, for all his strangeness, would have no interest in  _him_. Or, perhaps, somehow some spark of Gerald remained in this youth and by associating with him, Damien would put the compact he'd made with the fae in mortal danger. He should leave. Now. He knocked on the door, and, when a quiet voice bade him enter, he opened it and walked in.

The youth was sitting on the bed, still in the white robe from the bathhouse, with one slim leg drawn up beneath his body. All his attention seemed focused on the task of trimming his fingernails with a tiny silver knife. Damien stood, speechless, now that he'd finally found his quarry. There was a brief, and very deliberate pause before the dark head lifted and the dark eyes sought his face.

"Mer Vryce." The youth's voice hinted delicately at impatience. "What do you want?"

"I want…" unexpectedly, he was struck dumb. Not a commonplace experience for him. Damien asked himself what  _did_  he want? To say his farewells, to express his gratitude, that was what he'd told himself. But that was to endanger the new life this young man had found. And letting go wasn't what he really wanted anyway.

"I want…" … _a slender figure, its head wrapped with fine silk gauze against the poisonous gases, poised on the brink of a volcano, sword lifted high in one hand, preparing for an unthinkable sacrifice_ …

… _a shimmering vision of unearthly beauty, the fae as he'd never seen it before, borne on the link that had bound him, for the rest of his life, to an undead sorcerer_ … 

… _a cold hand touching his shoulder, in pity, in solace, when all his dreams lay in ruins_ …

… _a quiet night under foreign stars, when he first felt moved to call the Hunter by his given name_ …

… _the strange, cold brilliance of the Hunter, beautiful, even when its cruelty appalled him_ … _  
_  
… _the man, newly reborn, with so much promise, so much to live for, dying beneath the Hunter's fortress at the hands of his last living descendant_ … 

Damien lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug, his arms spreading wide in surrender. "I don't  _know_  what I want."

A faint trace of humour was visible in the dark eyes. "And you expect  _me_  to help you?" He shifted his position and the robe slipped open a little further so that Damien could see the shadowed inner thigh.

Suddenly his heart was pounding and he had to force his eyes away from the sight. This wasn't right. He'd never had this kind of reaction before, not with a man, and rarely, with this intensity, with a woman. And, God knew, Gerald… but this wasn't Gerald. And Damien was very sure that those calm eyes were very aware of what had happened… was  _still_  happening to him, damn it all, as his body continued to betray him.

He took two swift steps forward and dropped to his knees beside the bed, staring up into that young/old face. When he finally spoke his voice was rough with need. "Who  _are_  you?"

"I'm not…" the smooth face clouded briefly, "…not the person you're looking for."

Was that regret? Fear? Damien couldn't be sure. But the knot that had started to unravel in his gut when he'd made the decision to follow this youth was back in full force now. It was too late; unthinkable to turn back now. "Gerald is dead."

"Yes."

"But you…" Damien searched for words to give form to what his mind told him was an impossibility. So much depended on it, so very much. A man's life.

A fleeting smile acknowledged his helplessness. "But I…"

"Yes." Damien leaned forward.

The dark lashes fluttered low, screening the youth's thoughts. Then he, too, leaned forward a little, his lips parted. Damien could feel the brush of his breath, warm against his lips. It took no effort at all to bridge the gap between them.

The lips pressing against his were warm, soft… no different, really, from a woman's. Damien slid his hands up into the long tangle of damp hair and drew the youth closer. They could have stayed like that for an eternity, but the young man drew back. Damien followed, drawn irresistibly to his taste, his scent. For all that he'd never done this, never  _thought_  of doing this, with a man, he had no intention of stopping now.

They were both on the bed, the slender body stretched out, nucat-like beneath Damien's; and Damien, aching with longing, stiff with need, was moving against that body with an urgency that shocked him. His mouth tasted of mint, no doubt from the tee they served in the bath-house, which Damien had been too preoccupied to drink, and his skin... his skin smelt of some perfume, spicy and exotic. It had probably cost a fortune, but it complemented those exotic features like no other perfume Damien had ever smelt. 

He slid his hands under the open fronts of the robe and drew the cloth down off the youth's shoulders. One side of the smooth, hairless chest was veiled by the fall of his unbound hair, gleaming like midnight silk against olive skin. Damien lowered his head and kissed the fragrant skin just below the fragile arch of his collarbone.

Hands clasped his head but made no move to direct him. It seemed that he was being given the opportunity to do whatever he wished. Or to withdraw, if his nerve failed him. But it wouldn't, of that Damien was quite sure. Whatever urge had led him here was a true one, not to be denied. His lips brushed lower, and lower again until they closed around a tight nipple. The body beneath his arched up against his lips, but the youth made no sound.  _Exactly_  like a nucat…

When he looked up Damien met eyes heavy lidded with pleasure; eyes that watched him with a mature detachment and more than a hint of irony. Which was, he supposed, not surprising. They certainly made unlikely lovers. He'd never desired other than women before, but when had he ever had a relationship with a woman that reached the depths of trust and understanding that he had found with Gerald? 

The youth frowned suddenly, almost as if he could read Damien's thoughts. "The Hunter is  _dead_ , Vryce. If you wish to continue, you'd do well to accept that."

"Yes. I understand that, but Ger… he was only interested in women…" Damien hesitated. How far could he safely pursue this line of thought without putting his companion at risk?

The long lashes lowered, but only partially veiled a flash of impatience. "And if the Hunter were to forswear his life, to turn away from it entirely…"

Suddenly it made sense. "Yes. I can see that, with his… history… it would be difficult to, uh… to associate with women in his new life without raising a few spectres."

"Indeed." The quiet voice was smooth, denying any personal involvement in the discussion. "So, have you analysed this  _hypothetical_  situation to your heart's content, Vryce? Or should we call in a few philosophers to join the debate?"

"Just one more thing." Damien watched the spark of impatience flare anew. "Call me old-fashioned, but I like to know the names of my lovers."

"Renatos." The corner of his mouth curled up slightly. In self-derision, perhaps? "Renatos Chandri."

"I see." Yes, that would be typical of his arrogance. Renatos, meaning re-born. "A pleasure, Renatos."

"I hope so." Renatos pushed himself up onto his elbows and claimed Damien's mouth with a possessive kiss.

It reawakened the arousal that had faded into the background as Damien had struggled with the complexities of this new relationship. He pushed the soft fluffy cloth away from Renatos' body and ran his hand down the sleek curves of his side from chest to mid thigh. He had very little body hair, even at his groin, almost like a pubescent boy. But there was nothing childlike about the dark swell of his cock lying in a lazy curve across the top of his thigh.

Damien laid his hand atop it with a cautious glance at Renatos' face. The young man was smiling, with the feral pleasure of a hunter who had caught his prey. It was an oddly reassuring sight. He bent his head to suck at his nipple again, shifting co-operatively when his companion began to remove the robe Damien was still wearing.

Really, it was not so different from pleasuring himself, as he had during the sometimes lengthy periods between his female lovers. The thick springy muscle stirred against his hand, hardening delightfully and Damien realised that his pleasure had never come from his cock alone. The feel of its heat, its velvety hardness in his hand had always been a part of it. This was no different… if anything it was better, to feel the two distinct pleasures of a cock in his hand and the stiffening at his groin.

Renatos groaned suddenly, his body arching again, as Damien curled his fingers possessively around the rigid cock. A hand, much smaller and more slender than his own took hold of his cock and teased it with skilful fingers. Damien buried his face in the dense strands of scented hair and thrust violently until he was able to control himself.

"Damien…" the slim body beneath him arched again and one long leg wrapped itself around his hips. Renatos' head was thrown back in a display of sensual abandon that destroyed most of the higher functions of Damien's brain.

He pressed down against the younger man, trapping their hands between their bodies, and thrust again. But all too soon impatience got the better of him. Damien pulled back and spread the slender thighs wide around his hips. The dark limpid eyes stared up at him calmly, in stark contrast to the turmoil of their breathing, and Renatos smiled.

Man or woman, it seemed not to matter, as Damien slid into the dark heat of Renatos' body. The feel of Renatos' cock twitching between their bellies simply added spice to the pleasure. His first cautious thrusts were met with complete composure, then mounting enthusiasm. Sweat trickled down the slender, elegant neck and Damien licked the salty drops away. Renatos' arms slid around him, fingers digging painfully into his back.

"God!" The profanity burst explosively from his lips as Renatos' arms and legs tightened suddenly, and his body thrust onto Damien's cock. He'd had demanding lovers before, but nothing remotely like the hunger he saw in those dark eyes. "Wait. Let me…"

But there was no waiting, only a rush of sensation so intense that Damien wasn't even aware of climaxing. Then he was lying limp and exhausted in Renatos' loose embrace. They were both going to need another bath, if the stickiness on his belly and the prickling of sweat on his chest were anything to go by. He rolled onto his side and looked at his lover.

Renatos was not sleeping, of that Damien was sure, but he was not moving or even fully aware as yet. His olive skin was flushed and gleaming with sweat, the nipples and cock darkened by arousal, and his hair lay in a tangled skein, black as True Night. Slowly the dark lashes, spiky with damp, lifted from the high cheekbones. The equally dark eyes stared up at him. For once the acerbic tongue was silent, and it occurred to Damien that the Hunter (except that Renatos was  _not_  the Hunter!) would not have experienced this earthy pleasure in over a thousand years.

He tangled his fingers in the silky strands and drew Renatos close for a long, searching kiss, then released him with a sigh. Across a distance of a couple of inches, they regarded each other solemnly. Renatos smiled. "So, priest, do you have any plans for the rest of the day?"

"I'm not a priest. Not any more." The disclaimer came readily to his lips, as though the decision had been an easy one. He relaxed a little and returned the smile. "I have no plans for today; or any other day, for that matter."

"Good." The youthfully smooth face remained neutral, but Renatos' dark eyes radiated satisfaction. "We'll have to see what we can find to pass the time."


End file.
